


Safe

by yeaka



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Ficlet, M/M, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Public Hand Jobs, Uncle/Nephew Incest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-30
Updated: 2015-10-30
Packaged: 2018-04-29 01:03:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,573
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5110757
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fingolfin makes Maedhros feel good in the Hithlum library.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Safe

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: Fill for theomniscientsociety’s “fingolfin/maedhros and a quick romp in the library” prompt on [my tumblr](http://yeaka.tumblr.com/).
> 
> Disclaimer: I don’t own The Silmarillion or any of its contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

Hithlum is a lovely place, or at least, seems so after what he’s been through, when before everything paled next to Valinor. There’s something to the quaint wooden buildings he finds peaceful, and Maedhros runs his fingers along the shelf’s edge as he winds through the library, headed ever deeper. He caught a blur of black hair disappearing around the end, and he would know those dark locks anywhere. 

He finds Fingolfin in the back, as usual, tucked between dusty shelves where the light is only faint and the air feels thicker. His regal beauty gives Maedhros pause for half a moment. Then Fingolfin’s book-induced trance breaks, and he glances down the isle, a soft smile brightening his features. 

Maedhros strolls immediately forward, coming, perhaps, too close, at least for public. His feet tuck right against Fingolfin’s. He’s a sliver taller, but he’s slimmed down and worn and slumps more than he used to—he’s still learning to regain himself. The frayed ends of his shortened hair make him feel smaller. Even his robe is thin, fragile. Fingolfin is humble but handsome, in quality blue robes with a synched, brown waist and his hair cascading elegantly down his shoulders. He’s the first to _touch_. He slips his fingers along Maedhros’ face, cupping him and gently stroking his cheek, and murmurs, “You look well.”

Maedhros’ eyes fall—a quick lapse in confidence. He is well, compared to the past days: well enough, but still he mutters, “I look a hideous mess, swimming in scars and my hair and arm cut away.”

Fingolfin clicks his tongue, chiding, “You could never be hideous, nor anything but beautiful.” Maedhros’ cheeks heat, and Fingolfin runs his hand back along Maedhros’ face, long fingers weaving into the mess of his shorn hair. “And your colour was your gem here, not your length, though your length will return.” Not soon enough. Maedhros’ nose wrinkles, and he deliberately keeps his eyes open to shut out the memory of the Orc’s blade sawing at his scalp. When Fingolfin strokes him so, it eases that pain. Most things Fingolfin does have that effect.

Fingolfin continues the gentle message for a while, and Maedhros leans into the touch, rubbing his cheek against his uncle’s warm palm and relaxing into familiar hands: the affection he so sorely missed. 

Eventually, he can’t keep his own fingers out of Fingolfin’s hair, streaming, straight-lined and shimmering, down broad shoulders, contrasting over blue silk. There are no knots to catch in or pull, which is well enough—Fingolfin rarely wants to play rough. He’s as strong and brave a warrior as Maedhros has ever seen, but he’s _kind_ around it all, and it brings Maedhros such _peace_. He keens for more, ducking his head to mouth at Fingolfin’s jaw, leaving Fingolfin room to speak to him. 

Fingolfin asks, hands now straying lower down Maedhros’ body, “Has my son been taking good care of you?”

Maedhros nods, smiling into Fingolfin’s cheek. “He is my saviour anew every day.” With a small hesitation, mainly because Fingolfin’s hands now run alone his slender hips, he sighs, “But... I think I require the soothing embrace of my favourite uncle, as well.”

He doesn’t deserve it. He protested but stood by and watched as the ships burn. Yet Fingolfin’s forgiven him, as Fingolfin forgives everything. Despite his brother’s arguments, Maedhros never regrets surrendering kingship to Fingolfin. He deserves the rule. He deserves an elf less damaged than Maedhros, yet one as grand as Maedhros strives to be, and Maedhros tilts down again, needing _more_.

Fingolfin’s fingers curl beneath his chin and guide him. Their lips are brought together, at first chaste, gentle, tentative things, butterfly kisses that Maedhros used to yearn for on Thangorodrim. Fingolfin is so _careful_ with him now.

But Maedhros grows stronger every day, and his _want_ drives him. He murmurs between their soft touches, “I missed you so terribly.” He kisses longer, harder, until his tongue is probing at Fingolfin’s mouth, signally that he’s _ready_ , and Fingolfin is quick to oblige. 

A hand knots in his hair—he’s never minded it rough, though Fingolfin’s ‘rough’ is never violent—and the other loops tight around his waist. A quick tongue slips into his mouth, battles with his and coaxes it out to suck, while his body’s pulled all the closer, flattened completely into Fingolfin’s. Maedhros’ hand gets lost in Fingolfin’s hair, the other arm steady against Fingolfin’s chest. He barely notices being guided around until his back is hitting the shelves. He’s pinned against them, kissed deeper and deeper, taken so thoroughly, that he starts to gasp between kisses, and moan, and _burn_ for his uncle, his hips thrusting forward. He grinds them together and is squeezed all the tighter. Then Fingolfin pauses long enough to purr, breath ghosting just along Maedhros’ lips, “You cannot know my pleasure at having you returned to me.” Maedhros already feels dizzy. 

He wants Fingolfin _now_ , doesn’t care if they’re in public and they shouldn’t make things too difficult to pull apart. He wants to feel his uncle buried _inside him_ , or else take his uncle, though he knows Fingolfin won’t use him so—not yet, not until he’s healed fully—outside the comforts of a bed. Instead, his robes are gently parted, opening up his chest, and Fingolfin kisses a wet trail down Maedhros’ chin, then throat, all along his darker skin. 

Maedhros is breathing hard. His chest rises and falls beneath Fingolfin’s warm mouth, shivering at each lick of Fingolfin’s tongue. The robes are parted right to his navel, which Fingolfin curls his tongue into, then laps back up, hands palming his chest through the sides of his robes to tease his nipples. Maedhros has returned more sensitive than ever. Each touch stirs in him a cloying heat. Fingolfin licks right to his mouth again, though Fingolfin’s hands stray lower, one latching beneath Maedhros’ knee to lift it higher. Maedhros lifts that leg to Fingolfin’s hip, letting Fingolfin’s weight keep him upright and sandwiched against the bookshelf. 

It makes it easier for Fingolfin to hike up Maedhros’ robes, fingertips prying beneath the fabric to run alluringly along his inner thigh. He breathes between kisses, “ _Uncle_...” and Fingolfin bites Maedhros’ bottom lip, nibbling lightly and now running just between Maedhros’ crotch and thigh. He twitches in his confines, begging, “ _Please_...”

“You are so sweet,” Fingolfin muses, full of approval that Maedhros hungrily swallows. “Such a good boy. Returning to me, kneeling at me feet, surrendering to my rule and coming to me now...” Maedhros nods, fiercely loyal, and were it not for the oath that constrains him, he’d swear to follow Fingolfin _anywhere_.

As it is, he’s helpless, willingly so, while Fingolfin teases him, petting all around him, stroking beneath his stones and rifling through the copper hair above his shaft. He’s become painfully hard from their kisses and humping Fingolfin alone. By the time Fingolfin’s fingers finally close around his cock, he has to will himself not to come immediately.

He holds back, somehow, and merely trembles in his uncle’s arms as he’s stroked and petted, mouth thoroughly claimed. He forgoes toying with Fingolfin’s hair to cling to Fingolfin’s shoulder, just so he’s prepared if his knees should buckle. If his younger brothers could see him now, they might never forgive him. But they haven’t been through what he has, and they don’t know Fingolfin the way he does. They don’t see just how much the crown belongs on his head. 

He showers Maedhros in kisses, but he still finds ways to purr, “You are brilliant, my darling nephew.” Maedhros squirms, delighted, bucking forward into Fingolfin’s busy hand. “You are beautiful still: your scars are simply proof of your valiance. The patterns of your pretty skin are a masterpiece to me, and I shall enjoy exploring each and every one with my fingertips and tongue...” Maedhros shivers, whines, desperate and wanton. He’s so _close_ , but the thing that pushes him over the edge is Fingolfin’s tongue around his ear, promising: “You are a greater treasure to me than any jewel, your light greater than any tree, and you are worth the whole of Valinor together.” Fingolfin always makes him feel _so loved_.

And he can’t stand against it anymore. He comes with a silent cry, half by his own force of will to keep this private, and half by Fingolfin’s mouth stealing all his air. He’s kissed right through it, milked inside his robes, until he’s shuddering and boneless and can barely stand. His leg lowers slowly, both feet on the ground. Fingolfin wipes his hand off on Maedhros’ stomach. 

Then Fingolfin steps back, a thin trail of saliva breaking between their mouths. Maedhros wipes it away on the back of his hand, then thumbs the other end off Fingolfin’s lips, while Fingolfin draws Maedhros’ robes back together.

He’s still a mess. He reeks of sex. He asks around his laboured breath, “Come with me to my rooms, so that I may return the favour.”

Fingolfin chuckles. His smile is radiant, and he pulls Maedhros down to kiss his forehead, but answers, “I have reading yet to do.” Before Maedhros can sink into disappointment, Fingolfin promises, “But I will join you tonight.”

Maedhros smiles in return. He bows his head in acceptance. 

With great effort, he takes his leave to clean himself up, so that he might later be presentable for his king.


End file.
